A Brother's Love
by Nikki Noname
Summary: It's a lonely world, and no one knows that better than Mycroft Holmes. One-shot on how Mycroft reacts to Sherlock's "death."


**This is how I think Mycroft would have handled the news of his little brother's death. Love him or hate him, Mycroft cares about Sherlock and his death would ruin him.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

There was something amiss in the atmosphere, the chill in the air seemed more sinister, the clouds that hung above the city were daunting. And the guilt that had wormed down Mycroft's spine and into his stomach was terrifying.

He tried in vain to ignore it as he made his way to work, his umbrella grasped tightly in his hand. But he could not fool himself; Mycroft knew his discomfort was from his failure as a brother, his failure to protect Sherlock.

Hell, he was the reason for all this mess in the first place.

Perhaps, for once, he should listen to John's advice and call his brother, apologize for the disaster he had created, claim responsibility for the mess James Moriarty had made.

In that instant of self-loathing and remorse, Mycroft wished that his mother was there, to scold him and force him to pick up the phone.

Instead he hung up his coat in the doorway to his spacious office, leaned his umbrella carefully against the wall, trying to shed all semblance of sentiment, trying to shake off the crushing guilt that had followed him for the past few days.

What would he say?

_Sorry Sherlock, I may have destroyed your credibility, I just might have told Moriarty a detailed account of your life. Apologies._

And what would Sherlock have to say in reply? Would he disown Mycroft forever? Finally cast him away without even a backwards glance?

It was likely.

He reached for his phone; maybe a text would be more eloquent. Sherlock always hated talking to him. The sleek device felt heavy in his fingers and he exhaled loudly, annoyed with the situation, with himself.

Before he could type out a message to his little brother, his phone rang shrilly, startling him slightly as his deep train of thought was interrupted.

"Hello?" He asked, and in his voice the self-reproach and tiredness he felt became evident.

"Um, hello, Mr. Holmes." The voice on the other end of the receiver was feminine, young and awkward. Frightened.

"Who is this?" Mycroft drawled slowly, too distressed to deal with pointless prattle.

"Helen Stoner, sir. I was assigned to shadow your brother, Sherlock Holmes." Her voice was definitely scared, if not morose in its pitiful tone.

"Ah," He muttered, rubbing his forehead roughly. "And have you been keeping him out of trouble?"

A long beat of silence met Mycroft's ears, and from where Helen stood outside of St. Bart's Hospital, all words got caught in her throat. She pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to force speech from her lips, but all that came out was a croak.

The hesitation caused cold dread to replace all the blood in the elder Holmes' veins. He heard her stutter and it sent fear straight to his heart.

Mycroft swallowed loudly, "Is he hurt?"

The girl's breath caught slightly and she winced. She was not a doctor, she should not be the one delivering this news.

"He-" She tried to tell him but failed, gritting her teeth at her inability to communicate. "I was watching him and then Moriarty was there, and I called for back up but I couldn't see what was going on…"

"What happened?"

"They were on the rooftop of Bart's Hospital… there was a gunshot, and then Dr. Watson was there-"

"John was on the rooftop?" Mycroft interrupted, standing up. "Who got shot?"

He prayed, despite himself, that the soldier had saved his brother.

"No, Dr. Watson came in a taxi… Your brother and Moriarty were on the rooftop. And then Moriarty, he shot himself… and then Sherlock was on the edge of the building, talking with Dr. Watson."

Mycroft's mouth was dry and his heart beat painfully in his chest.

"Miss. Stoner, please. Just tell me what happened."

There was a small pause, where Helen looked at the pool of blood on the concrete and then up to the roof of the hospital.

_How strange_, she thought, looking again at the dark liquid on the pavement_, to kill oneself in a place of healing._

She cleared her throat,

"He jumped, Mr. Holmes. He threw himself off the building."

Mycroft shut his eyes and pulled the phone from his ear, ending the call with a soft beep.

Dead. His little brother. The six year old boy who had pretended he was a pirate for over a month straight, the twelve year old who had won the science fair, the awkward sixteen year old who had scared girls away with his experiments, the university student who craved knowledge and the detective who knew everything.

The son, the brother, gone.

Mycroft imagined his mother crying, her ice-blue eyes looking at him through large, pained tears, twisting his heart with her grief, her disappointment. He wanted her to hit him, smack him for ever being so stupid as to give his brother up for Moriarty's information.

He wanted to hit himself.

He exhaled shakily; hanging his head as he realized that John had seen it all, watched his brother fall, plummet to the unforgiving ground.

Dead.

Bile rose in Mycroft's mouth,

_Did it hurt? Was it painless like they say, or did he suffer?_

He imagined Sherlock, in his old, flowing coat, taking an elegant swan dive off the hospital.

_I'm so sorry, brother._

Mycroft gasped as he repressed his tears, the images biting at him, gnawing at his sanity. It was so frigid outside, had Sherlock worn his blue scarf? Had he felt the nip of London's wind, rushing past him as he fell? Had he worn gloves, or were his fingers cold?

They would definitely be cold now.

His thoughts wandered to Molly Hooper, the mousy girl who was infatuated with Sherlock, how would she take this news? Would she be the one to tend to him in the morgue? Would she hold his lifeless hand, pray for his soul, for his brilliant mind?

He hoped so.

Mycroft had never been a religious man; his parents had raised him to believe in good government, not spirituality. He often scoffed at people with beliefs, but now, learning of his younger sibling's death, Mycroft craved faith like a parched alcoholic. He wanted to believe that his brother was in a better place, probably rowing with some spirit or another.

But he didn't. He knew his brother was dead, lying lifeless in the stone cold morgue, never to offend or entertain again. Sherlock was no angel.

Mycroft had never felt so desperately isolated in his life, not when his father had died or his dearest mother had passed on, because now, sitting in his cool office, filled with leather bound books and expensive paintings, he was truly alone.

Again Mycroft closed his eyes, trying to keep his foolish tears at bay. This was all his fault, after all. If he had not been so idiotic, so disgustingly thoughtless, his curly-haired little brother would still be alive.

Mycroft felt his stomach twist, and he tried not to heave as his anguish stabbed at him.

He had once told Sherlock that all lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.

Mycroft had never been so right. And for the first time in decades, Mycroft cried.


End file.
